Broken Hearts Can Only Heal
by Cassy21
Summary: 'He had no answers to give her, nothing to alleviate the rage surrounding her soul. Her voice was all he could hear, shrieking a desperate plea for help without ever actually asking, desolation resonating throughout every syllable...'


_**Broken Hearts Can Only Heal.**_

_**Written for the 'Don't Get Too Friendly' Rose and Scorpius Competition on the HPFC Forum, posted by xxx-angelin-xxx.  
**_  
_**My criteria were -  
Time: **__6/7th year or post-Hogwarts_  
_**Genre: **__Romance/Angst_  
_**Ending: **__Happy ending_  
_**Prompt: **__Linkin Park – New Divide_

_**Also to be entered into the Thunderstorm Romance Challenge on the HPFC Forum, posted by RoseScor90, if I can :)**_

* * *

Her rage and her energy made her seem part of the storm she was immersed in; the deluge of rain failed to dampen her anger. He noted dispassionately that it also miraculously neglected to calm her unruly hair, with the result being that it had now encircled her petite frame, a furiously fiery halo, both warning and enticing anyone who would pass by. Not that that was likely. Not _here _– about the furthest Rose could get away from the castle; not _now _– at eleven at night in the middle of a torrential downpour. Lightning ruptured the sky, shattering the fragile illusion of darkness, highlighting his blonde hair and accentuating the tears running down her cheeks, trickling over her cracked, crimson lips.

She turned to face him, acknowledging his presence for the first time. Her blue eyes were hostile and wary: yet another warning sign, advising him to employ caution, to back off, to leave her alone. Her cheeks were chaotically flushed and stained with crimson –she was no silver screen darling who cried exquisitely and attractively. She was real, and distressed, and he was surprised how much it hurt him to see her like this.

He stepped towards her, only an infinitesimal amount, but enough. Her blue eyes met his brown ones with a sudden flash of defiance, and when she spoke her voice was low and startlingly steady: 'I get what I deserve.' Yet her declaration caught with an oh-so-slight tremble in her throat, her breath hitched uneasily, and it was then that he understood.

This was about pride, about Rose never admitting even the most minor of weaknesses. This was about appearances, facades, reputations. This was about alliances and arguments, friends and foes. She would not crumble nor soften in front of his eyes because he was Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, her adversary and her nemesis. Competitive to the end, the rivalry between Rose and Scorpius was well-known and often documented. It had nothing to do with their surnames, or even their families; it was their innate desire to prove themselves worthy in their own right, to be the best, to win – and to Rose, crying would only serve to establish Scorpius' superiority.

Clarity reached him in a split-second, and he found, quite frankly, all of a sudden, he couldn't care less about grades, or contests, or any of a vast number of inconsequential and petty humdrum everyday occurrences. _He cared about Rose. _It hit him like one of the bolts of lightning still bursting and splitting through the swirling gloom that currently passed for the sky: He was attracted to _Rose Weasley_; the very same infuriating, bossy, controlling, intellectual and shrewd Rose Weasley he had loathed and found insufferable for almost seven years–

And he had to choose now to realise it. _Now_, with the said girl in the throes of an unspecified heartbreak. _Now_, in the rain which unconsciously echoed and mirrored her tears. _Now_, in the middle of the night when all he really yearned to do was to return to his dormitory and to go to sleep and to wake up in the morning and pretend he hated her still. Now he _loved _her, and it was non-retractable and indelibly true, no matter what he wanted.

He tentatively shifted nearer to her once more, moving slowly so as not to spook her. He could see now that – other than the too-hectic brilliance of her eyes and lips and cheeks – her normally creamy porcelain-like face was white and pinched, and that dark circles surrounded eyes that spoke only of the bleakness of life. She bit her lip, gulping hard for air, aiming and failing to reach composure.

Control. It was something he'd always associated with her, and now she had none he had a jarring sense of feeling adrift. He spoke her name, calmly, softly and soothingly, reaching out a hand to bridge the emotional divide that threatened to disconnect them once more. She regarded it suspiciously, and then shook her head once, sharply. He nodded and withdrew it, not quite daring to step closer to her once more. He felt her seceding, drifting away from him by the moment, and so it shocked him when she spoke once more, again in that eerie, emotionless voice that was so unlike her. 'He's gone.' And now she attempted to choke back a sob, but she was soon shuddering and bent over in a pain no-one else knew, overwhelmed by a grief that wracked her body.

'Who?' His voice was careful and measured, not betraying any of the rush of emotion that had swamped his heart at the sight of her distress. When she could articulate her thoughts, they were incoherent and largely incomprehensible – no longer was Rose the collected, detached maiden she had always presented herself as to the world. She was primitively distraught, trapped in the agonies of angst and loss.

Memories consumed him, memories he had long since forgotten or deemed unimportant. The first sighting of her on the platform, their first conversation, the first time she had beaten him in a test, the first time he had beaten her in a test. The scorn in her eyes, the disdainful curl of her lips, the shriek of her voice when she lost her temper; the untamable curl of her auburn hair, her smile, her laugh, the way her face crinkled as she tried to understand something, the way she bit her lip when she lied: they were the things that made her Rose.

She finally surrendered to the strength of her sorrow and collapsed, motionless but tearless, onto the cold wetness of the ground. He trod closer once more, needing to unite them over this vast yet invisible wedge-like split that had forced itself in between the two awkward teenage opponents. Kneeling down, he touched her for the first time, ghosting his fingers feather-lightly across the severe outline of her fragile shoulder blade. She instinctively stiffened, throwing off his hand and sitting up forcefully. He was too astounded to move, half gaping in shock, yet he was painfully aware of her twisted, broken beauty. Colour had returned to her cheeks, tainted as they were with the glimmerings of tear-tracks.

She gripped his arms ungracefully with such fury and intensity that it almost scared him, and then she began to shout and to scream, to rant and to bawl. She launched into a tirade on the unfairness of life, on the death of her uncle, on the smothering nature of her family. She _demanded _answers: _why _was he here _still_? What did _he _care? Why _her _uncle? _Why her?_ _Why, why, why? _He had no answers to give her, nothing to alleviate the rage surrounding her soul. Her voice was all he could hear, shrieking a desperate plea for help without ever actually asking, desolation resonating throughout every syllable, cutting Scorpius like a knife. Her eyes were wild and staring, begging Scorpius to save her from herself. But he couldn't. He remained motionless, held in place by her clutching, wretched fingers, too anxious to speak, to console, to rescue her. He felt that she would never stop, that she would continue eternally, forever broken, forever unreachable. Her diatribe reached a roaring crescendo, and then – then she stopped, as swiftly and abruptly as she had started, leaving an all-encompassing silence in her wake.

Her very bones seemed to wilt and droop, and she slumped in his arms, suddenly fatigued beyond measure. Her voice was muffled into his shoulder as she spoke once more, one more word, one more question: 'Why?' He didn't comprehend, and accordingly asked her why, regaining the ability to speak now that she was apparently semi-rational and ordinary. 'Why did you stay?' Her tone was softer and gentler, yet vaguely accusatory. He didn't answer, instead electing merely to entwine and interlace their fingers together, pressing the mildest of kisses to the top of her damp and ruffled red hair, closing the chasm-like rift between them once and for all.

_And Rose?_ Through the murky haze of her remaining misery she felt that, given enough time, _maybe, just maybe,_ matters would _only _improve and broken hearts could _only _heal.

* * *

_**If you're reading this I'll assume you made it to the end of my little piece! :) Huge amounts of thanks for taking the time to do so :)  
Please review - I promise I'll be good forever. Even the teensiest, tiniest one would be vastly appreciated!  
Thank-you greatly to FollowThisRhythm aka. the wonderful Amy, for reading and correcting and fixing and moral support :D**_

_Cassie xoxx. _


End file.
